


you and me (in the valley lockup)

by menocchio



Series: downtown man [1]
Category: Cobra Kai (Web Series)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Divorce, Drinking, Jail, Karatesexual Characters, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Season/Series 02, this is a rom-com
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:41:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 45
Words: 11,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27510940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/menocchio/pseuds/menocchio
Summary: “So, we've got three for public intoxication, one domestic, one hooking, and two for Kung Fu-ing the shit out of each other behind a strip mall down on Vine Street.”(In which Johnny and a soon-to-be divorced Daniel have a very long night.)
Relationships: Daniel LaRusso/Johnny Lawrence
Series: downtown man [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2026910
Comments: 217
Kudos: 339





	1. A Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Right: see the number of chapters? Many of them are very short, which was deliberate. Clicking that "Entire Work" button might be a good idea :D

The beginning of September usually came with a slight easing in the traffic through the county jail but Joe and Darlene worked the dogwatch, and the freaks never kept to any kind of seasonal schedule on the dogwatch.

Joe left the perps in the back of the van for a moment to step inside. He kept hoping to catch Darlene doing Sukoku or playing Candy Crush on her phone, but he was once again disappointed. She was doing some kind of paperwork. Boring.

“Midnight delivery,” he said, walking up.

She swiveled her chair easily from her paperwork to the intake terminal. “Go ahead.”

“So, we've got three for public intoxication, one domestic, one hooking, and two for Kung Fu-ing the _shit_ out of each other behind a strip mall down on Vine Street.”

Her fingers paused over her keyboard. “Kung Fu-ing,” she repeated.

“Yeah, you know.” He mimed a slow chopping motion with one hand. When she just looked at him with raised eyebrows, he tried a kick, but the polyester of the uniform slacks didn't allow for that much range of motion. He could definitely do better if he was wearing some sweats and maybe stretched for a while beforehand. Those guys in the van were like fifty years old; if they could do it....

She reached across the desk and snatched his sheet. She glanced at it. “So – disorderly conduct.”

He slumped down, elbows on desk, and scratched his chin. “Yeah.”

“You're going to be driving that van for the rest of your career, Joe. I hope you know that. Try to act a little more professional.”

Which was unfair, because Joe wasn't even the arresting officer who waited a minute on the scene so he could take a video of the guys fighting. Joe just drove the van.


	2. Daniel at 4:30 AM

Daniel didn't wake up so much as slowly realize he was already awake. It was a disconcerting feeling, this gathering of his awareness. Like he'd tripped and spilled a bowl of himself and was only now scraping the thoughts and feelings back together into something resembling a person.

Whoever that person was, he was in pain.

Daniel was slumped in a corner, cheek mashed against a cool cement wall. The air smelled like a state park pit toilet at the peak of summer. He stared down at his feet; his loafers were badly scuffed. He could tell something – many things – were wrong with his body, but in that second it was all undifferentiated pain.

“What the hell?” he croaked and grimaced at the parched scrape of his throat. There was a strange soreness around his mouth. He pushed away from the wall and looked around, blinking to wet his dry, burning eyes. He—

He was—

He was in a jail cell.

Also on the bench was a young woman with incoming stubble, carefully penciled eyebrows, and a nose ring. She glanced over at him, dark eyes sweeping warily up and down.

“Johnny,” she called, and Daniel felt something in the general vicinity of his chest seize up. “Johnny, I think your boyfriend's come to.”

He looked over, wild-eyed, and noticed what he hadn't before: the golden head in the adjacent cell. Johnny stood and crossed over to stand close to the bars, squinting at Daniel. Or maybe it wasn't a squint, maybe that was the black eye blooming on the left side of his face.

The sight of him elicited the usual response: recognition followed by shock, anger, and immediate fixation. “ _Johnny_? What the hell is going on, why are we here? What'd you do to me?”

“Interesting,” said his cellmate. “You know you have the thickest New Yorky accent when you're black-out drunk? It's much less noticeable now.”

“Jersey,” corrected Daniel, unthinking. He thought maybe he was going into shock.

“He's also mean when he's black-out drunk,” said Johnny. To Daniel, he added, "By the way? You struck first.”

“This can't be happening,” he said. “There has to be some kind of mistake.” He stood and crossed to the front of the cell and wavered between the need to press his face close to see down the hallway and revulsion at touching bars that likely hadn't been cleaned in days or even weeks.

Johnny from his left: “Only mistake was me not shutting my door in your face earlier. You think I wanted to end up in here again?”

“They should really give you some sort of punch card,” said the woman behind Daniel. “Ten nights in lockup and the eleventh's free, or maybe comes with a pastrami sandwich or some shit.”

“You're one to talk, Isabella. What was it this time, anyway? Wrote a bad check?”

“Oh my God, who writes _checks_ these days?”

“I don't know, I don't have a bank account.”

“Would you two shut the fuck up?” snapped the man in Johnny's cell. Daniel couldn't be sure because he was lying down on the bench, but he looked like he was well past six-foot-five and built like a linebacker. Maybe he could take Johnny out.

“Imma get some sleep, now that that one's stopped raving,” the man continued; to Daniel's shock, he gestured at him.

He stared and then transferred his wide-eyed gaze to Johnny, who put his forearm up on the bars and leaned forward.

“Man, what do you remember about last night?” There was something strange in his voice, but it had nothing on his expression. He looked torn between contempt and that familiar boyish glee he always seemed to wear around Daniel when he was trying to ruin his life.

Daniel decided to ignore him. He reached up and probed his face with careful fingers, flinching slightly when they encountered the cut on his bottom lip, the bruise on his cheek.

An officer finally came down the hall, and Daniel was back at the bars in an instant, curling his hands around them like Sam used to when they put her in a playpen. The thought was a gut punch.

“Officer. Officer, I'd like to make a phone call, my phone call—”

Daniel couldn't remember the last time a police officer looked at him like this: cold, flat eyes and a brutal sneer. The man barely glanced at him, but it was long enough to get the message. On this side of the bars, Daniel was worth less than nothing.

“Nice try,” said the cop. “But you already had your phone call.”

He felt the blood drain from his face. “What. Who – who did I call?”

A careless shrug and the man continued down the corridor, content to ignore his pleading.

Daniel released the bars and stumbled back a few steps, one hand outstretched until he could find the bench again. He sank down, other hand in his hair.

His thoughts kept trying to recover a memory of the phone call but flinching back, self-protective. _Please, God. Please, let me not have called Amanda._ The way he's been feeling for the past week, nothing good could have come out of his mouth. But many unforgivable things might have.

“Look, LaRusso,” began Johnny, shifting awkwardly where he still stood at the bars. “If it makes you feel any better, you weren't still raging when you made the call.”

“I wasn't?” he said, head lifting. Hoping.

He shrugged. “Nah. You were crying like a little girl by then.”

“Wow, Johnny,” said Isabella. “Starting to think it wasn't that hard to get him to hit you.”

“You don't know him, okay. This guy's never needed an excuse to hit me.”

Daniel tried to take a breath, but it was difficult. This couldn't be happening. This couldn't be happening. This couldn't—

“Hey,” said Isabella, voice sharpening, “Hey, man, are you alright?”

Daniel's knees slammed hard to the cement floor as he lurched forward and emptied the contents of his stomach into the cell's tiny metal toilet bowl. Everyone above and around groaned, a chorus of shame and disgust added to the one in his pounding head.

After spitting a dozen times, Daniel leaned back from the acrid-smelling toilet and sat on his heels. Sitting seiza in scuffed loafers in a jail cell, this was his life now. After blinking back the tears the vomiting had brought to his eyes, he looked over again at Johnny.

He gazed back, and suddenly Daniel was glad for the lack of concern or softer feeling in the other man's eyes. There was nothing he could say or do that Johnny Lawrence would pity him for; this was exactly what Daniel needed.

“Alright,” said Daniel, and his voice was still hoarse. It still hurt his head. “Tell me what happened last night.”

Johnny considered him. “Well, what do you remember?” he asked again.

And Daniel made himself think about it.


	3. Daniel & Johnny at 12:40 AM

The van took a hard right turn, sending Daniel tumbling into Johnny. He was momentarily too tired to do anything but hang there against the cuffs on his wrists. Besides, it was cold in the van and Johnny was warm.

“Hey, man,” snapped Johnny. “You're gonna get blood all over my shirt.”

“And whose fault is _that_ ,” said Daniel, a little mush-mouthed. His jaw was swelling, and he couldn't really feel it but he could definitely hear it in his voice.

Feeling spiteful, he decided to rest his head on the other man's shoulder. Just for a moment. The arm beneath his cheek twitched once but settled.

One of the three drunk twenty-somethings sitting across from them raised his head and peered over. Suspicion leaked through the cracks of his bleary noncomprehension. “Whoa,” he said slowly. “Y'all some kind of fairies or something?”

Daniel desperately wanted to see the look on Johnny's face right now, but his head was too heavy to lift. He settled for imagining it: denial, disgust, defensiveness. Johnny's three favorite Ds, probably. Daniel huffed a laugh into the crook of his neck, his own vodka breath coming back at him. Johnny twitched again.

“Blake,” said the punk, nudging one of his insensate friends. “Hey, Blake. Lookit. Your dad was right about California. S'all fags.”

“Yeah, you better be careful, kid,” said Johnny, his voice doing that thing it did when he was pretending to not care about something. Also, for some reason his hand was suddenly on Daniel's thigh. Stroking it. “All that stuff they say about it being contagious? It's totally true, dude.”

Daniel blinked from the twisting disgust on the twenty-somethings' faces to the big hand on his thigh. It was also warm, and the one point anchoring him in his body when he felt at risk of phasing out. Maybe he shouldn't have finished the bottle back in the parking lot.

“Fucking disgusting,” muttered the punk. “California fucking perverts.”

“Keep California outta your mouth, or I'll come over there and kiss it,” said Johnny, and Daniel would be amused that all this was for his wounded Golden State pride, except he was feeling a little sleepy and a lot drunk.

But fine. He could go along with this, in the name of messing with some assholes. He let his head drop back down on the shoulder, gave a good nuzzle, and said sweetly, “You take me to the nicest places, Johnny Lawrence.”

Johnny gave his leg a warning squeeze, but he replied gruffly, “Anything for you. Uh, babe.”


	4. Daniel at 4:41 AM

Daniel looked up suddenly from rubbing his temples. “Did I. Did I win the fight?” And he must be still quite drunk; if he was sober, he would not have asked. He would have wondered (obsessed) about it, but he never would have asked.

There wasn't a word for the rude noise that came out of Johnny's mouth. “You _wish_.”


	5. Johnny at 11:25 PM

Grappling was too much. Neither of them were any good at it, or maybe they just didn't have the commitment. (It was never a part of real karate, anyway.)

They broke apart.

Both out of breath, staggering sideways to get some space between them. Hands hovering over knees. Johnny saw his own imbalance mirrored by the waver of Daniel a few feet away and goddamn, he should know this by now, you can't take breaks from working out at their age. Not when you call a night of less than six beers a light night.

He turned his head and spat: blood on the pavement. When he looked over again, Daniel was watching him. His eyes looked black under the streetlight.

“You ruined my fucking life,” said Daniel.

And Johnny thought he knew every flavor of LaRusso anger on the menu, but he'd never encountered this one. It wasn't the superior anger of him trying to ban Cobra Kai from a tournament, or the scared anger of him looking for his hungover brat. This was something ground down and desperate, and Johnny only recognized it because he knew despair; he'd stretched and trained with despair for years. His most loyal sparring partner.

After several seconds, a moment that felt too long and weighted, Daniel broke the gaze. He squeezed his eyes shut and hung his head. His breath sounded ragged from a ten feet away. Johnny felt the hard heave of his chest against his earlier, but this sounded different.

He didn't say anything at first. This whole past year had been an exercise in silence, him finally realizing nothing good happened when he opened his damn mouth. And he was starting to think – maybe it was true. Maybe he had ruined LaRusso's life. He'd had plenty of practice. He was the All-Valley Champ of Fucking Up.

But like everything good in his life, his mercy didn't have staying power. He hadn't been trained in it. No stamina. Johnny's eye was swelling shut and fucking with his vision while Daniel LaRusso was straightening up, entirely too put-together for the trainwreck he'd been all night. And _he_ had come for Johnny, after all. Johnny didn't ask for this, he didn't start it.

But he was damned if he wasn't going to finish it.

"Hey, Danny?"

Daniel blinked and shook his head slightly. He took a half step to the right to correct his balance and looked over at him, face curiously open. But damn, he was drunk.

Johnny tongued his lip and said, "I hope your wife takes the house."

He felt a vicious wounding pleasure in how Daniel's expression crumpled and then cleared, flattening out because at some point in the past thirty-odd years, he'd learned how to take a hit. But Johnny wasn't sure why his own chest hurt. Maybe it was a heart attack, or acid reflux.

"You wanna end this?" asked Daniel, his feet slowly moving back into position even before he received a response. "Haven't had enough?"

He'd been looking for _enough_ for years, but it never came. There was no bottom. "Never, man."

And when Daniel came forward again, Johnny met him with a front kick to the face.


	6. Daniel at 5:00 PM

A beautiful afternoon in the park with a beautiful girl. It shouldn't have felt so bittersweet.

“And um, how's school?” asked Daniel.

He shuffled his shake between his hands, rubbing at the condensation on the outside of the cup. He alternated between staring at it and looking at his daughter, not wanting to come across too much like he was desperate for news, any news.

“It's good,” said Sam, nodding up from her feet dragging in the sand and squinting one-eyed at him through the sun's glare. “I mean, it just started, so. You know. But so far it's good.”

They were sitting on swings, at his suggestion. He'd thought it would be whimsical, a reminder of better times, maybe. But Sam just looked awkward and a little sad.

She wore a sweater, even though the weather still carried the old heat of July. Sam didn't like bearing her arms anymore, wouldn't listen when they told her the scar was barely noticeable. He hoped college changed this for her, that she'd be one of those people who really came into their own and stopped caring so much about what others thought.

Once, he might have said this to her. He could not tell if it was progress or failure that he kept his mouth shut now.

It came on like the tide, the grief. He stared forward blindly until the tightness in his throat passed. He wasn't about to fall apart in front of Sam – like she needed anything more to worry about, or further proof that he'd messed everything up.

He lifted his shake for cover, but it was mostly empty and the sound of the straw seemed louder than a garbage disposal.

“How was the Labor Day cookout?” he asked, brightly false like phosphorescence, a cheap glow in the dark toy fading fast. “All the neighbors come around? Did the Coopers bring their new dog?”

He'd heard about the puppy after bumping into another neighbor in the store. Seemed he was missing out on the regular sight of a three-month-old basset hound. Gary said it tripped over its own ears; he stood next to the arrangement of delicata squash and enthusiastically offered to show Daniel a video of the puppy chasing his young son down the sidewalk. Daniel had smiled and had the most unsettlingly strong desire to punch Gary in the face.

Sam stopped twisting her swing. “No, we didn't – Dad. Didn't Mom?”

He looked at her and all thoughts of puppies fled from his mind. Sam was caught out, almost stricken. He said, voice easy, “What's going on, Sam?”

“Mom didn't tell you,” she said, checking. Tensing expression said she already knew the answer.

When he shook his head, bemused, her mouth flattened. She put back her arm and threw her shake viciously overhand; it landed thirty feet away and bled strawberry ice cream.

“Sam! Hey, calm down.” He reached out, steadying her swing because it was easier than steadying her shoulder. He took a measured breath. “Look, whatever it is, it's _fine_. I promise you, it's fine, it's for the best. Your mom—”

“It wasn't your fault,” she snapped. “She's blaming you, but it wasn't—”

“It was enough my fault,” he said firmly. “Now, please. Just tell me what's going on.”

Sam stared ahead, and he had to wonder if he saw what he'd seen, if the beautiful late afternoon sun looked cold to her.

“Sam,” he prompted gently.

She swallowed and cut her eyes over. “She's selling the house, Dad.”


	7. Daniel & Johnny at 8:15 PM

The smearing red from the neon light in the window seemed to bleed in under his eyelids when he blinked, which is how he knew it was time to go. He didn't frequent bars like this very often, and the ancient stool was making him acutely aware of his spine, despite the three martinis he'd had. They'd been there long enough to watch the bartender flip on the lights as the sun went down, so – yeah, that was long enough.

“We should probably call it a night,” said Daniel. He was feeling a little tired; emotionally, he was exhausted. Like he'd been pulling the equivalent of back-to-back all-nighters. “It is a weeknight, after all.”

“It's Sunday,” said Johnny, nonplussed.

Daniel raised his eyebrows and shifted forward slightly onto his elbows, waiting for him to realize that he hadn't actually contradicted him. But Johnny tipped back his bottle and drank, giving him a weird look out of the corner of his eyes, a wordless but emphatic _what, man?_

Daniel sighed.

He knew he could just leave. It's not like Johnny didn't have a lifetime of practice at drinking alone in bars. Something stopped him, though. He told himself it was – sympathy. Concern. Guy was probably still in a bad way because of Robby.

He didn't think about the long ride across town he had waiting for him, or the dark, empty rooms of his new apartment.

“Let's at least go someplace else,” said Daniel. “I need to stretch my legs.”

And that, Johnny responded to; he dug into his pocket for cash and tossed down some crumpled bills. Daniel eyed the amount, calculated what it should've been with a proper tip, and rolled his eyes. He slid the money back towards the other man.

Johnny, already half in his jacket, paused and looked down at Daniel's hand, resting flat on the cash. “What the—”

“I'll just put it all on my card, alright?” he said.

He scowled and snatched the money back. It disappeared into the back pocket of his beat-up jeans. “Whatever makes you feel like the big man, LaRusso. You know, I've had credit cards too. It's nothing special, man. Anyone can get one.”

“Yeah, and what was your APR?” asked Daniel, tapping his card on the counter as he waited for the bartender to notice them. “Thirty percent? Higher? Wait, don't answer that.” Thinking about Johnny Lawrence's finances would likely give him nightmares.

He got the receipt back, scrawled out a good tip and signed, and grabbed his jacket from the coat rack by the door.

The street outside felt vast after the cramped interior of the dive bar, the air fresher if not necessarily cleaner.

“Next round's on me,” said Johnny, setting off on foot down the street as if he had some kind of game plan.

Daniel hesitated for a critical moment, watching the man's straight shoulders, his easy amble. He thought again he should probably protest, or even just – leave. But there was something undeniable about his company being assumed after months of being spurned.

Johnny reached the next street post over before realizing he was alone; he turned and looked back across the skip of darkness at Daniel. His hair and skin seemed to take on the exact color of the yellow overhead light, and it made his expression hard to read. But he was waiting.

Daniel slowly shrugged into his jacket. Maybe just one more, he thought.


	8. Johnny at 2:20 AM

Johnny was all ready to let the man dig his own damn grave; hell, he'd stand back and ask for popcorn while he watched.

Isabella sat on the opposite end of the bench, studiously ignoring Daniel, because when you've been in lock-up more than once, you learn quickly to mind your own business. But this didn't stop him from giving Johnny a speaking look as Daniel continued to mutter to himself and wipe his eyes.

 _Say something, jackass_ , said Isabella's look.

Johnny folded his arms. _Why should I? He's the asshole here._

Daniel's hand went behind his back and slid, stuttering, up the wall. He tried to stand. It took him three attempts and then he had to catch himself in the corner when his knees buckled. He blinked at the wall two inches from his face. He looked so confused.

Isabella's eyebrows rose pointedly, and since they were those weird sharply-defined ones, they were very pointed indeed. Johnny gritted his teeth.

He cleared his throat. “Hey, look. LaRusso. I don't think you want to make that phone call right now.”

“Johnny?” Daniel turned in place. His eyes landed in his direction, but it was impossible to say whether he could actually see him. They wandered to the side after only a second or too anyway. “I gotta talk to my wife. Have something to say. It's important.” He said it like someone in a group meeting might hold a chip, like it was the only thing keeping him going.

Johnny was still trying to reason with him when the officer came back to take Daniel away for his call.

“Look, man,” he said again. “Trust me. Wait until morning.”

But Daniel was pushing off the wall and standing tall, straightening his shoulders and raising his chin like a man being marched off to face a rifle squad. His face was grubby with dried tears and lack of sleep. Once, Johnny would have loved nothing more than to see him like this.

(Maybe that was a lie; maybe he never would have enjoyed it? He didn't even know anymore.)

“Daniel,” he said sharply, one last attempt. He stretched his arm into the next cell, and his fingers grazed his shoulder. It was like trying to reach for a man about to go over the edge of a waterfall.

The cop slammed his baton on the bars and barked at him to retract his arm, _or else_.

Daniel flinched from the loud noise, but he didn't seem to notice Johnny's attempt. He followed the cop out of the cell with a slightly weaving step. His voice, suddenly spookily normal-sounding, could be heard trying to make small talk all the way down the hall.

“Well, at least you tried,” said Isabella. He stretched out along the now-empty bench, pillowing his head on his elbow: the jailbird horizontal hunch.

“Yeah, I'm sure he's going to really thank me for _trying_ later,” said Johnny. He looked down the hall for a moment longer before turning back to his own cell; his own bench; his own chance to get some sleep. But it he didn't think it would come.


	9. Johnny at 11:01 PM

“You know this – this is so like you, to react this way,” said Daniel, hand cutting through the air. With his torn collar and wrecked hair, he looked crazy, like he should be hanging out with Lynn under an overpass somewhere. “I suppose I should give you credit for even still being here.”

“I never run away from a fight,” said Johnny, because that seemed like the only part worth responding to.

His eyebrows went up. “Oh, so this is a _fight_ now.” And because it was him, because it was them, Daniel suddenly sounded more surefooted.

He spread his arms. “It feels like one, doesn't it? You standing there going on about what you think you know about me, like one year in school decades ago is enough to mark someone for life.”

Daniel paced a few feet, like he was going to just walk away, leave everything. But he had to turn back and get the last word. “Hate to break it to, Johnny, but you're not that complicated a guy. It's not hard to know what's going through that head of yours.”


	10. Daniel & Johnny at 10:15 PM

Daniel stood before the neon-edged screen, trying to focus on the dizzying array of song choices. It felt imperative that he get this right; the stakes were a couple spent dollars and the respect of the entire bar. But he kept getting distracted by the dark reflection of the two of them, the close outline of their bodies.

“No,” said Johnny, looking over. He was leaning on a stool and eating from a bowl of popcorn someone had left behind. Gross, thought Daniel. He wrinkled his nose.

“What about—”

“ _No_. What the hell's the matter with you?”

“...Billy Joel?”

Grudging. “Yeah, fine. I guess.”


	11. Daniel at 4:50 AM

He brushed a hand over the back of his neck and paused, struck by a sense memory, or something. His hand firmed, cupping the back of his skull, and a flash of heat stole over his face.

“Wait. Did we – ” He raised his head to stare at Johnny, mouth dry. “Did. Did _I_ – ?”

Johnny looked back at him, expression wooden. Daniel had no idea what was going through his head just then.

Panic crawled up his throat, blocking his air and betters senses. He shut his eyes and curled forward. “Never mind,” he muttered thickly. “I – I don't. I don't remember anything.” He shook his head. “Nothing.”

God he suddenly wished that was true.


	12. Daniel & Johnny at 10:18 PM

“ _Uptown_ _girl_ ,” they belted out, “ _she's been living in her white. Bread. World._ ”

“This is you, LaRusso,” said Johnny beneath the sound of Billy Joel shooting for the octave. “The uptown girl.”

“What?” Daniel slapped a hand down on the table and leaned forward so he'd be heard. “Nah nah, hold up Mister – California Sunshine Encino Brat. You've never lived anywhere outside the valley.”

“So?”

“So, I'm from _Jersey_ ,” said Daniel, sounding in that second very much like it. “If anyone's a downtown man, it's me.”

_She'll see I'm not so tough, just because I'm in love with a—_

“Hate to break it to you,” said Johnny, not sounding like he hated it all, “but you've been here like, twice as long as you were ever there. And what is Newark like anyway? Isn't it just an airport and bunch of. Warehouses or whatever?”

Daniel's eyes went wide and a little wild. Johnny threw some popcorn into his mouth and waited.

_When my ship comes in, she'll understand what kind of guy I've been—_

“You trying to pick a fight, Johnny?”

_And then I'll win._

Johnny showed his teeth in a smug grin.


	13. Johnny at 12:59 AM

Daniel's head, a solid weight on his shoulder. Johnny was pretty sure he was passed out. Maybe should've cautioned him against taking that final long swig from the vodka as the cops were closing in. But, to be fair, he was still pretty pissed at the time. Besides, the sight of Daniel LaRusso bleeding in a torn shirt, stumbling over to snatch up a liquor bottle from the cracked concrete? Priceless. A once-in-a-lifetime image. Johnny didn't feel guilty at all, no way. And it wasn't like the vodka wasn't going to help make this whole situation a little more livable. Imagine a sober Daniel in this situation. He'd be such a pain in the ass. He wouldn't be shifting against Johnny's side; instinctively pressing close; nosing into his neck. It was probably for the best that he be a little liquored up for all this. If Daniel was lucky, he'd get into the cell and just pass out until morning. Then he could wake up, get his release, and pretend none of this happened. The bruises would fade and what memories remained could be buried. Clean and easy.

Johnny didn't think about why he hadn't taken another drink from the vodka.

The van turned and slowed, bumping over a curb. Whoever was driving this thing was shit at corners.

“Hey,” Johnny said quietly, jostling the other man lightly. He wasn't being gentle, he just didn't want him to wake up flailing and hit Johnny in the process. “Daniel, wake up. I think we're here.”

Daniel had trouble getting his eyes to work in sync. He rubbed his jaw against Johnny shoulder and then froze, thinking better of it as the bruise there reasserted itself.

“Where are we?” he said.

“The jail. Hey,” he said, a little more sharply. “Seriously, man. Wake up. You don't want your first mugshot to be you half asleep on your feet. That's just embarrassing.”

Daniel sat upright with impressive speed for someone who was drooling just a few minutes previous. “Mugshot,” he repeated, and Johnny thought maybe he'd gone pale.

“Aw, what's the matter,” said one of the punks across from them. “Wanna touch up your make-up first?”

“When we get out tomorrow,” Johnny told the kid seriously, “I am going to kick your ass from here to the I-5.”


	14. Amanda at 7:19 AM

She was still holding the phone to her ear, processing the voicemail message and waiting for the numb shock to pass, when an unholy shriek came from the dining table.

“Mom!” Anthony hollered, as if she was across the house and not standing fifteen feet away. He wasn't looking away from his phone, so he couldn't tell. “There's a video of Dad fighting that one dickhead all over Facebook.”

Amanda looked at Sam.

“...I don't think he's winning,” added Anthony.


	15. Daniel at Midnight

“Alright, fellas – break it up. Get back from – O'Malley, put that phone away or so help me, I will shove it up your ass.”

Blood on his upper lip; flashing lights in the corner of his eye. A high-intensity flashlight beam strobed across his face and he had to look away. Vision spotted. His gaze landed on the open pint of Gordon's sitting a few feet away.

“Easy now, I want you two to turn around and put your hands behind your back,” said the voice. It was authoritative. Daniel didn't like that, never had. Spent years trying to get to a place where he was the only one talking like that.

Johnny was spitting curses a few feet away. He shot him a quick glance; he looked nothing but resigned, which made it real. This was actually happening.

He wiggled his jaw, wondering if he would know if it was fractured. He took a couple steps forward.

“Don't even think about running for it,” said the voice. Warning.

Daniel scooped up the vodka.

“ _Sir_ —”

“Fuck you,” said Daniel. He lifted the bottle in an ironic salute and tipped it back.

The last thing he saw before the cop grabbed him was Johnny's face, mouth agape.


	16. Daniel at 1:28 AM

“We're going in separate cells?” said Daniel, confused. The officer gave him a funny look, and he remembered a second later: oh, right, we were arrested for fighting.

A loud buzzer rang out down the corridor and the door unlocked. Someone was already inside his cell lying down, and they sat up quickly as the bars slid open. Eyes lined with dark make-up looked him up and down.

“You really know how to make a girl's night, Officer. Throwing the drunk in with me, really? What if he's a pervert?”

“I promise to be a _perfect_ gentleman,” said Daniel, hand on heart and employing his most charming tone.

“Christ,” muttered Johnny where he stood ten feet away, waiting for his own cell to open.

His new cellmate craned her neck around Daniel, eyes widening. “Johnny! Fancy seeing you again.”

Johnny squinted and then his expression cleared and he nodded a greeting. “Isabella, right?”

Daniel's opinion of his new cellmate suffered some deflation.

“Did you beat up some more children? Or – no, wait. I get it. You've moved on to hate crimes.”

“What are you talking about?” said Johnny.

“Twinks?” offered Isabella. After a moment of bafflement, Daniel realized with some horror that she was pointing at him.

“I am older than him,” he said, aghast. When the officer winced, he realized he might have shouted it.

“ _That's_ your problem with that?” Johnny demanded, disbelieving. “Really?”

The officer was over the conversation; he gave an irritated gesture and Daniel staggered into his cell.

And he thought he was doing okay, that everything was going just fine, considering – until the bars slid shut with him on the wrong side. Then he found himself standing in the center of an ugly cold concrete block. He was painfully aware there was a small open toilet sitting a couple feet behind him.

“You're not going to freak out, are you?” asked Isabella, watching him closely.

What if they never let him out again?

“You look like you're going to freak out.”


	17. Daniel at 2:23 AM

“Heyamanda, I guess I should've realized you weren't going to be awake. Guess you don't have me as an exception on your Do Not Disturb anymore – which kinda hurts, not gonna lie. But, but that's okay! It's okay. I want you to know... no hard feelings, not about any of it, the house y'know... I swear I. I want you to know I'm always gonna support you and our kids, no matter what. Things happen a lot, so much, but I want you to know that. Maybe I shoulda realized – fuck. Sorry, uh. Wall moved. Sorry. Amanda! What I'm trying to say is, I'm a downtown man, I guess. And maybe I shouldn't've pretended to be anything else, maybe that's what twisted everything up so bad. I don't know how. Things just got to be too much. With the karate, I mean. I shoulda told you about everything long ago. And I shouldn't've lied to my therapist about it. But it's just – I love karate and figured you'd just tell me not to do it anymore, and I didn't want to hear that, I wasn't ready. Karate was never the problem, people were the problem. People are always the problem. They're so full of anger and they want to hurt you, or fight you to the death, yeah, I get it now. I should've definitely mentioned that to Dr. Rossi. But that's not karate's fault, that's not what I was teaching Sam and the others. I only wanted to protect them. Kids need protecting, Amanda. Someone's gotta. Damn it, that's time – okay, look, Amanda. I think I might be in love with Johnny and also, I'll need bail money if they don't let me out of here tomorrow morning, I don't know, I don't know how any of this works. Okay, bye, love you – I mean. Well, you know what I mean. I do love you. And the kids. So much. Okay, bye.”


	18. Daniel & Johnny at 9:58 PM

Daniel refused to feel ashamed at losing this badly in pool. He was no barfly; of course he wasn't going to be as good as someone who kept up a training regime of five beers before he touched a cue stick.

“Whatever you gotta tell yourself to keep your head up high, man,” said Johnny from across the table. He leaned down, long body stretching over the green felt. He fitted the cue in the cradle of his fingers, and neatly shot the six into the corner pocket.

Daniel realized he was gripping his own cue too tightly, and deliberately relaxed his hands, shaking them out one at a time. Overhead, another pop song started playing and he silently groaned. Who was picking this music?

“Who is picking this fucking music?” said Johnny.

“Right? I feel like I'm chaperoning a high school dance.” He remembered the last time he chaperoned and his smile wavered.

“If my students played this, it'd be fifty pushups on their knuckles,” said Johnny, and then he paused, likely remembering he didn't have students anymore. He frowned and bent over the table again.

Daniel decided to salvage this before they both became sad drunks. “I'm going to get another round and then we're putting some better songs on.”


	19. Johnny at 4:30 PM

“Here, don't forget your – rubberband thingy,” said Johnny, digging it out from between the seats. He half-suspected Miguel had dropped it in there on purpose, so he'd have an excuse next time he was supposed to do a set.

Miguel's mouth pressed down in a not-smile. Bingo.

“Hey, man,” said Johnny. “I know this sucks.”

“Yeah? Tell me about the time you were nearly paralyzed and spent your senior year of high school relearning how to walk.” Johnny kept his expression open and unchanging. Miguel shut his eyes after a second, ashamed. “Sorry, Sensei.”

Johnny put a hand on his shoulder and shoved him lightly. “You kidding? A year of hell and _that's_ all you've got to throw at me? I threw my back out once moving a fridge and ruined two friendships.”

Miguel's smile was small but real. “Really?”

“Nah.” It was more like three, come to think of it; Bill Calloway stopped talking to him around then, didn't he? “Anyway, I'm serious. I know physical therapy doesn't feel as good as training, but you're doing great. You're working hard, you're making progress – I'm uh, I'm proud of you.”

He still wasn't sure if he had the right to feel that, much less say it. But he was trying to get out of his own way these days. If he was proud of Miguel, he was going to damn well say it to the kid.

“Thanks.” Miguel grabbed the PT band and looked down at it. “So... are you coming to dinner?”

Carmen was talking to him again, but things were still strained. Johnny couldn't sit with Miguel's family without imagining how different it might have been. Some days he could handle it; some he couldn't.

“I have a lot to do tonight,” he said, never mind that Miguel likely knew with depressing accuracy what his nights alone looked like. “But I'll see you tomorrow. I'm still driving you to your next appointment, okay?”

They split off to their separate apartments.

Inside the dim quiet of his place, Johnny stood at his open fridge, eyeing the remainder of a twelve pack of Coors sitting on his bottom shelf. After a moment, he shut the door again without taking one out. He wasn't in the mood for a drink.

He turned in place and looked around the quiet apartment. He wasn't really in the mood for anything.


	20. Daniel & Johnny at 10:23 PM

“Did you watch the Premier tournament last month, the one in – Sydney, I think?”

“Yeah, I saw it. There was that one guy, the short one in the fourth round—”

“That block-kick combo was something.”

“Yeah. Wish I'd taped it so I could watch it again.”

“God, Johnny. Just – how are you like this?”

“Oh, don't start. Look, it's real simple. All that computer stuff, it's not real. It's fake. It's a distraction from life. You think I didn't see my students glued to their phones every second they weren't training? Killer on their posture, by the way, kids these days are going to have some serious back problems when they get to be our age.”

“Alright, alright – but you're wrong about it being fake. The world runs on the internet now. You can't just... drop out.”

“Can't I? Worked well enough before. What am I supposed to be missing out on, exactly? I mean, yeah – okay, free porn's pretty great. And it's satisfying to know I was right about the dinosaur thing, I guess, but it's not like I _needed_ it. Every day you pick what matters to you, and that stuff doesn't make the cut.”

“You're talking, like – balance.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Wait, what dinosaur thing?”


	21. Johnny at 1:45 AM

Somehow, Daniel was still talking.

“ – and then, oh, and _then_ , this guy sends some of his little jackbooted thugs to vandalize my dojo. They tossed the bonsai trees, slashed my bags. Stole Mr. Miyagi's medal—”

Isabella flicked a look at Johnny, who was nearing the end of his patience.

“I told you like a hundred times I had nothing to do with that.”

Daniel wheeled around, arms out big and dramatic. “Oh, and I'm supposed to take your word for it? While that psychopath is standing right behind you? _Please_.”

Why did Johnny always end up liking the mouthy ones, seriously.


	22. Daniel at 10:56 PM

“I think we're done here,” said Johnny, stepping back for good measure. Daniel breathes on that for a second before laughing a little. He ran a hand through his hair, looked at the rigid expression on the other man's face, and had to laugh again. If he was laughing, he wasn't thinking, wasn't panicking.

And anyway, there was something hilarious about Johnny Lawrence, wasn't there? His emotions still ran on magnetic tape, probably.

“Wow. Robby never stood a chance, did he?” said Daniel.

Johnny's face went blank.

He wanted to hunch over the moment the words were out, sure he was bleeding from some kind of self-inflicted gut wound. He thought he would do anything to stop Johnny from replying, but that required getting close again.

“He had a special kind of luck, you could say,” said Johnny, a little unsteady. “Two father figures and they both let him down.”


	23. Daniel at 11:26 PM

Pain isn't the blackness on the edges of his vision or the sodden feeling of his head, the strange lightning forking along his jaw. The asphalt is rough beneath his burning palms, and the streetlights are fleeing into the distance. Pain is presence that makes him present that let's him shove up from the ground and meet Johnny again with a punch. His fist knows how to talk when he's forgotten the words.


	24. Johnny at 10:26 PM

“But no, really. That block kick combo, I bet I could do it,” said Daniel, and he was bright-eyed with the unspoken challenge. His collar was unbuttoned because of the warmth of the bar, or maybe just whatever number of martinis he'd had, and his face was a little flushed. It was a good look for him, made him seem a little less like an Encino prick.

“Bullshit,” said Johnny, but he was already standing up. “C'mon, parking lot. Now. We're gonna need some space for this show.”

“Door's that way, Johnny.”

He turned. “I'm getting a bottle of something to take with us.”

Daniel hesitated. “Is that a good idea? I mean,” he looked at their table, and the crowd of glasses and bottles, “how are you not hammered right now?”

Truthfully, Johnny couldn't really feel his knees anymore, but he wasn't about to admit that.

“Who gets drunk on beer?”


	25. Daniel at 6:15 PM

It was strange being back in this apartment when the only previous time he'd been inside had ended so spectacularly badly. Daniel glanced at the television on the wall, remembering how it had felt to collide with its predecessor. When he looked at Johnny, the other man was eyeing it too, like he was also remembering.

“So, I uh – well, I was in the neighborhood,” which wasn't a lie because he had been, right after making the decision to drive to the neighborhood. “And earlier, Sam said something that got me thinking about. Well, about Robby. I haven't heard from him for a while, and I wanted to – check in, I guess.”

Johnny lifted his hands from his countertop, dropping them out of sight. He said slowly, “Robby's doing fine. Staying out of trouble. He's on track to graduate, which was never a sure thing with him.”

“He's a smart kid.”

“That was never the problem.” Johnny turned to his fridge, asking over his shoulder, “You want anything? I've got—”

“Beer?” That earned him a narrow look, which Daniel responded to by lifting his hands in surrender. “Actually, a Coors Banquet sounds like just the thing for a Sunday afternoon.”


	26. Johnny at 5:00 AM

He sat against the bars with his back to the other cell and rested his elbows on his knees, too tired to keep standing; too wired to sleep. The cops took his watch and there weren't any windows in the bowels of this building. He had no idea what time it was.

A scraping sound heralded Daniel's approach. He sat against the bars, a foot down from Johnny so he wouldn't be able to keep him out of his peripheral unless he turned his head away.

Daniel was quiet and almost sounded defeated when he asked, “Did I really strike first?”


	27. Johnny at 10:41 PM

A punch that came when he wasn't looking, an illegal kick the whole world decided to let go; a closed apartment door splintering along the jamb.

Daniel kissed like he fought, that is: selfishly and with no thought to what it would do to Johnny.


	28. Daniel at 5:00 AM

"Yeah," said Johnny.


	29. Amanda at 7:44 AM

Sam came back into the room, unease plain on her face. She held her phone out in front of her like it was contagious. “Grandma's calling,” she said. “What should I say to her?”

Daniel's mother had called Amanda five times, and now she was going for the weak link.

“It doesn't matter what you say to her,” she said. “She'll find some way to blame me.”

Guilt stole across Sam's face, and Amanda thought, a little sardonic because she hadn't the energy for anything else at that point: _ah, and she's not the only one._


	30. Daniel at 10:30 PM

The parking lot between the bar and the minimart on the corner was deserted, it being a Sunday night and this being the most economically depressed stretch of commercial real estate in Reseda. It made for an ideal battleground.

“No, man. You're bringing your knee up a beat too late,” said Johnny.

Daniel dropped out of position and folded his arms. “I'm doing it exactly like that guy did it. I can show you the video—”

“Never mind the video,” he said dismissively. “We can figure this shit out on our own.”

Daniel shook his head and resumed position. They went through the motions for a few moments: slowly trading strikes and blocks. He was beginning to think Johnny was right about the knee, but damned if he was going to admit it.

They paused for a vodka break. Johnny went to take a leak over behind the bar dumpsters while Daniel blinked up at the hazy pink night and hummed Uptown Girl to himself.

This was kinda nice, he thought.


	31. Daniel at 2:12 AM

Daniel had a good life. He did. He'd worked hard for it, made sacrifices. What did Johnny know about sacrifices? Probably couldn't even spell it.

What would Mr. Miyagi think, if he could see Daniel now? Jail cell, not great. But that's unimportant. This was just a place he happened to be occupying. It had nothing to the jail cell _of his mind_. Oh, that was good, that was a good one.

“Your problem, Johnny,” announced Daniel, “is that you live in a jail cell every day.”

Johnny frowned. “Seriously, I haven't been arrested that many times.”

“The jail cell is your brain,” he continued.

“You calling me dumb?”

“No, I – ” Daniel cut himself off with a groan in frustration.

“I think he's calling you repressed,” provided Isabella. “I just wish he'd do it a little more quietly.”

“Yes, _thank you_ , Isabella. I'm saying you're repressed.”

“I'm not repressed.”

“That is. Exactly what a man who is repressed would say. I should know – this may shock you, I know. I seem like I have it all together, and – I do, mostly. But I myself have, on occasion... struggled with acknowledging certain, you know.”

Johnny squinted at him, confused. “Feelings?”

“Facts of life, I was going to say.”

“Like the old show? Jo was a badass. And hot.”

“See?” said Daniel, waving his arm. “Repressed.”

“I told you, I'm not repressed. I'm bisexual, you dick.”

He goggled.

“He's _such_ a Blair,” said Isabella, behind him. Johnny snapped his fingers and pointed at her in clear agreement.

Daniel blinked and turned half away, his body struggling with too many inputs and half of them the word bisexual. Coming from Johnny, it sounded like a word in a foreign language. Surely he'd said it wrong? The man pronounced jalapeno with a blunt 'j', anything was possible. He tried to think back on the night, but it was already coalescing into a slurry of drinks and fighting. Had Johnny acted bisexual at any point? No, he did not. Daniel was the one open and clear-headed about this kind of thing. He had balance. He went to therapy.

But Johnny hadn't said it just now like it was a thing. He just said it.

Daniel slid him a suspicious glance. Did Johnny think he had some kind of one-up here? Did he think he was winning something? The uneasy feeling in his gut firmed into something determined. Determined and a little reckless.

Daniel stumbled to the front of the cell, fetching up against the bars and just barely avoiding braining himself.

“Officer,” he called, choosing his words with great deliberation. “Officer, I would like to make a phone call.”

A noise from behind him: sharp and cut-off. And Johnny to the side, Johnny-come-lately:

“LaRusso, you don't want to do that.”

Daniel angled a look at him, mouth curling. Someone was feeling nervous, clearly. Thought he was going to lose his edge? “Don't tell me what to do.”

“ _Fuck_.”


	32. Johnny at Midnight

“Fuck you.”

Daniel LaRusso stood tall at rock bottom, blood on his mouth and on his torn shirt, his Encino chinos a lost cause. Black-eyed victory as he saluted everyone with the vodka, his torn knuckles tight around the bottle like he was considering punching out a cop. He was the greatest thing Johnny had maybe ever seen.

He wished he had a camera, and then he remembered suddenly – he did, everyone does these days.

So while the cops cautiously approached and circled the plastered and belligerent number one car salesman in the valley, Johnny dug out his phone and took a quick picture.

Daniel tried to take another drink and finish the rest of the bottle off, and the cops tackled him. He went down flailing, spitting unintelligible curses.

Johnny looked down at the picture and his mouth curled in a slight smile. He'd have to get Miguel to show him how to put it as his background.


	33. Daniel at 10:53 PM

He wiped the back of his mouth with his wrist. His lips felt a little numb.

Johnny watched him, something tense and alert in his expression. It was like he was looking for an opening, a weakness. Daniel was nothing but open right then. He felt exposed.

“We should,” he began, and took a breath. “We should talk about this.”

“What good's talking about it now gonna do?” asked Johnny stiffly. “You're drunk off your ass.”

He put his head back. So that's how it was going to be, _of course._ “I know you like to run from your mistakes, but I generally try to face my problems head-on.”

Johnny blinked, surprise on his face like he hadn't expected Daniel to resist his attempts at burying this whole thing. After a moment he said, “Yeah, I seem to remember you doing a lot of facing your problems back in school.”

Daniel went still. “Funny thing about fighting a gang of five guys – the odds aren't too great. You bet your ass I ran back then. Guess it's easy to look back on that and feel brave when you're one of the five, huh, Johnny?”

“Like I said – you're really drunk, and I don't want to do this right now.”


	34. Daniel at 2:15 AM

As he waited for the officer to come back, Daniel sat on the bench and tried to order his thoughts. It was becoming increasingly difficult. He breathed in and out and stared at his feet. Was he really going to do this? He was going to do it. He had to. He had to keep moving forward and this was how he accomplished that. For months now he's felt stuck, suspended. Everyone around him seemed like they had it figured out, like they were in control. This was how he got control back.

It should have felt like a new beginning. So why did he feel like something was ending?

“Dude, are you. Crying?” said Johnny.

“You're the worst boyfriend in Los Angeles, and that's really saying something,” said Isabella.

“We're not boyfriends, how many times do I have to tell you? God, I hate that word.”

“Probably because you're so repressed,” she said, something like mirth bubbling beneath the words. Daniel didn't understand what was so funny.

  
  



	35. Johnny at 10:31 PM

Something was different when they started again. Maybe Daniel thought he saw something in Johnny's expression; maybe Johnny started to feel suspicious of Daniel's moves. Maybe their bodies just weren't meant to be neutral in relation to one another.

The next bout went quicker, the strikes harder and the blocks more alert. There was no more talking. Then Johnny tried to flip him and Daniel broke the hold in the last second, but his shirt collar tore.

Daniel stumbled and fell back against the dumpster with a bang.

Johnny, unthinking and half-laughing, reached for him, going, “Oh, shit, sorry—”

But Daniel wrapped a hand around his wrist and _pulled_ , dragging Johnny against the dumpster and reversing their positions, a surprisingly slick move for someone so hammered and then he pinned his shoulders against the filthy metal and kissed Johnny.

He tasted like vodka.


	36. Johnny at 11:27 PM

He could take a punch, he's been taking them his whole life. A punch was a promise, it was attention, it was _I see you._ Maybe he's always had trouble telling the good kind of attention from the bad, but when it comes to Daniel it all felt the same. A punch was Daniel admitting they were on the level. A punch was Daniel admitting he gave a damn. A punch was Daniel proving he could be touched.


	37. Daniel at 10:32 PM

His head is a blissful blank space. He isn't a man of thought but of action; he has no past and no future, only the present – this moment right here when Johnny's mouth falls open and Daniel presses his advantage. This moment right here when the picture finally resolves and it's a long, firm body he can throw himself against like a wall. This moment when everything, finally, begins to make perfect sense.

There are broad shoulders beneath his palms, unresisting to his bruising grip, and his grip _is_ bruising.

There is a jagged feeling growing in his chest. Maybe its oxygen deprivation or maybe it's euphoria. It's pushing against his seams where he pushes against Johnny's and the only thing he can think to do is break the kiss and try to get a hold of it. This isn't something meant to be contained by the human body.

He gets half a breath in and a skittering glance at Johnny when the other man curls a hand around the back of his neck and yanks him forward again.


	38. Daniel at 5:20 AM

“So,” he said, “How's this all work, then?” He was practically whispering, because what little he could remember involved a lot of shouting, and he felt bad about making everyone's night a little harder.

“How's what work?” said Johnny, voice at normal volume, because he was kind of a dick.

“Getting out of here. Do we need to get bail put together, or...?”

The other man shook his head. “No, no. They're running our prints through the system right now. Once they've made sure we're not wanted for murder in another state, they'll set a date for a hearing and let us go."

“A hearing,” repeated Daniel. He was now a man who had to show up for a court hearing. The only time he'd stepped foot in a courtroom before this was to argue a speeding ticket.

“You should get some sleep,” said Johnny.

“What? Oh, right.” Daniel glanced over to the bench, where Isabella had stretched out, her back to them. He looked at the floor. “I guess I'll just – right.”

He grimaced as he shifted away from the bars. He was going to feel like warmed over shit tomorrow, he just knew it.

Johnny curled up on his side of the bars, crooking his elbow under his head to keep his face off the floor. Daniel followed suit, figuring the other man knew what he was about. They blinked through the bars at each other. Johnny looked a little weirded out.

“Well, uh, good night,” said Daniel.

Johnny looked very weirded out. If Daniel hadn't been a little drunk still, he might have felt embarrassed.

“Sleep tight, Princess,” Johnny said at last. He was still looking at him when Daniel closed his eyes.


	39. Johnny at 10:42 PM

His fingers are buried in his hair, and when Daniel tries to tear himself away, instinct says to tighten his grip. He lets him go, of course, but it isn't what he thought, it isn't even in the same country of what he thought, because Daniel drops to his knees on the slick, hard pavement.

Jesus, Johnny thinks, the man doesn't know when to fucking quit.

Daniel presses his face against his hip and _breathes_. Johnny looks away. He looks back like he's stealing something and then away again.

The streetlight over in front of the mini mart flickers, and he remembers with a cold rush where they are.

“Daniel,” he says, and the other man reaches for his belt. Johnny's hand finds itself on the back of his head again, this time restraining. Daniel blinks up at him and his resolve wavers for a second before he looks into his eyes and realizes – well, fuck. Nobody's home in there.

“Stop,” he says.

Daniel's expression twists in on itself.  
  



	40. Daniel at 7:50 AM

The first thing he did when he got his phone back was scroll through his text messages, looking for any hints about the previous night. His fingers were trembling slightly, and he didn't know if it was the hangover or terror at what he might have texted to Amanda.

But he didn't have anything since 7 PM, and that was just a gif of a baby panda from Sam. He hadn't texted Amanda once the whole night.

The second thing he did was check his credit card account. The rough, choking noise he made was enough to stop Johnny in his tracks, mid-escape a couple feet away near the door to the building.

“How did we spend _$500_ in one night?” demanded Daniel, shoving his phone in front of the other man's eyes.

Johnny rubbed his jaw, considering, and gave an _oh, right_ look to the air. He laughed and slapped Daniel on the back.

“I might have convinced you to buy a punching bag set for your new apartment. Relax, you can return it if you think better of it – not that you should. You need to get back into shape, man.”

Daniel eyed him, lingering with a slight twinge of satisfaction over the other man's black eye. “You wanna go again, now that we're sober? See who wins this time?”

“So you admit I won last time.” Johnny grabbed his shoulder again and shook it. He kept touching him, and it was interrupting his orderly thought process every time. “There's a Denny's down the street. Let's feed these hangovers.” And when Daniel glanced down at his phone again, he added, “Hey, I'm buying.” As if that was the issue.

Daniel wasn't sure his stomach could handle food. But he found himself saying yes anyway.


	41. Johnny at 11:09 PM

Johnny had a breaking point, and he was distantly shocked it had taken this long to reach it.

“Okay, you wanted to talk? Let's fucking talk,” he said, but Daniel was playing the bigger man now, all sarcastic smile and backwards saunter.

“Wouldn't want to tax your brain. Talking about your feelings, that'd be like. Like. Walking and chewing gum at the same time, right?”

He was such a dick. He was always such a _dick_. Johnny couldn't believe he almost let him suck his dick.

And then Daniel did that fucking thing he always does, that gesture with the hand, that dismissive _you're not fucking worth the effort._

Daniel turned away but Johnny wasn't done; he grabbed for his shoulder, meaning only to turn him around again. But Daniel came back around with a sucker punch.

“You want to fight by Cobra Kai rules now?” said Johnny. He spat blood and looked at Daniel, standing there with his chest heaving, his fists balled at his sides. His eyes wide and furious and electric with the fight. “Okay. Then let's fucking go, man.”

“What is it you snakes always said?” asked Daniel as he slid his feet into position and brought his hands up. “Right. No mercy.”


	42. Daniel & Johnny at 11:55 PM

And just like that – the fighting somehow turned fun again. They were stumbling around the parking lot like jackasses, out of breath but still aiming a kick the other's way when they got close enough. Daniel couldn't tell which one of them started laughing first.

The karate fixed everything, like he always suspected deep down it could. Like they'd punched and kicked their way through an exorcism and had come out the other side free and light as birds.

“Uh oh,” said Johnny, as the flashing lights of a squad car approached. “Po-po.”

Daniel gasped out a laugh because it was funny, alright, it rhymed and everything.

“Hey, hey,” he said in a stage whisper, straightening with effort. “Let's do a demonstration for them, right now.”

“You're bleeding, I think it's a bit late for a demonstration.”

“C'mon and fight me, man.” And he aimed his next kick at Johnny's head, but the other man evaded it.

Johnny glanced once more at the cops getting out of their vehicles.

“Yeah, okay, let's fight,” he said. "Might as well go out swinging."


	43. Johnny at 8 AM

The waitress looked at them like she maybe wanted to ask them to leave, and Johnny supposed they should probably try to clean themselves up a little in the bathroom. He'd go after they ordered, he decided. He was starving, having not eaten anything but bar popcorn since the previous evening.

They got a booth and Johnny shoved his menu back into its holder. He got the same thing every time, though he was thinking he might order an extra side of pancakes, soak up the remaining beer in his system like a sponge.

Daniel blinked and stared down at his own menu like it was written in Chinese. He looked faintly stunned to be sitting upright. The stubble and bruises made him finally look his age a little more, and Johnny had a thought, real calm and clear: I'm going to kiss the shit out of you, man.

He spun the bowl of creamers. He felt a little like whistling.


	44. Daniel at 7:15 AM

“Alright, time to go, jailbirds,” called an officer, a new face first thing in the morning. “Hotel check-out's now.”

Daniel cracked his eyes open and discovered it hadn't all been an alcohol-fueled nightmare. He was still in jail. He wasn't sure he was actually alive. Maybe he'd died and his body was doing that thing they said bodies did after decapitation. Vague lingering electrical impulses making him move.

Johnny was asleep. The hand he wasn't lying on was stretched out, his fingers resting between the bars, the bars between them.

Daniel put his hand out, lining his torn knuckles up over the other man's and not thinking about why.


	45. Johnny at 6 PM

There was a knock on his door, but Johnny was only halfway through his plank time, so he ignored it. If it was Miguel, he'd know to try again or maybe just let himself in. If it was anyone else, they could fuck off.

Another knock, this one with a certain obnoxious demand to it. And then Daniel LaRusso's voice through the wood: “Johnny, I saw your car. Pretty sure you're home.”

Johnny fell out of his plank and gaped across the living room at the door. He wondered if he just kept real quiet, maybe the other man would go away? Except last time, he didn't go away, he kicked in Johnny's door.

His thoughts raced: had he done something? Did he get drunk last night and leave comments on the man's Facebook thing again?

Daniel knocked again. “C'mon, man. I'm not hear to fight, I swear. Though you've been kind of asking for it, what with those comments you left the other night on my wall. You know my kids can see those, right?”

Johnny bit back a heartfelt curse. He got to his feet and crossed to the door, yanking it open before the man could pound on it again.

“What's up, man,” he said, playing it cool, looking him over quickly and trying to hide his suspicions. He couldn't help the way his feet arranged themselves behind the door: preparing, just in case.

“Hey, Johnny.” Daniel took a breath and offered a smile. He looked a little tired. “Can I come in?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who read along as I feverishly posted this thing. I read and cherished every comment. <3


End file.
